One more mistake – one more sighting – and his miserable, lonely life was done for. Would that really be such a terrible thing? Nobody would miss him. Not even Lara, his only friend, though he doubted that she saw him as such.

Alec sank his head into the pillow and lay, staring at the ceiling. The pills had helped for a while. But sleep had grown more and more elusive, his body more tolerant to the drug’s effect. His nights were plagued by the same thoughts – the same image. He knew that behind the shutter he stood with his face inches from the glass, smiling, and waiting for strike three.

14

The clink of a plate was the first sound he remembered. And then the weightier clunk of a mug on the coffee table. Ben could feel the blanket’s tassels, itchy under his chin. Chloe must have draped it over him while he slept. He listened to her light step move into the kitchen. A chair moaned across the tiles like worn brakes on a bicycle. There was a clatter of cutlery followed by a sudden gush of water. The tap squeaked off. Ben’s eyes hadn’t opened yet. The world didn’t know he was awake. Nothing would be asked of his aching body if he stayed still. The patter of Chloe’s feet passed quickly from tiles to carpet, and another plate and mug found their homes on the table. He felt a tap upon his knee and turned to look at her, squinting lazily, as though he had just woken up.

‘Good morning,’ she said, her voice’s volume turned down to near silence. ‘I made us some breakfast.’

Ben could feel the cold air on his cheeks and ears, and on his nose especially. No wonder she had tucked him in. Thin windows, light walls; expense had been spared and so too had the warmth. The steam from their mugs clouded above the coffee table like two chimney pots. On the plates there were toasted sandwiches cut into triangles. Ben spied some bacon poking out from between the bread. A light spread of ketchup lined the lower slice, spilling out onto the plate like a bloody wound. His body yearned for something warm. He sat forward and pulled the blanket down to his lap. Chloe passed his plate over to him and shifted his mug to the edge of the table. Ben couldn’t recall the last time somebody made him breakfast.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s just after eleven.’

‘Jesus,’ he said, wiping something brittle from his eye. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sleep in so late.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she replied. ‘It’s good for you. Eat some food and you’ll feel better.’